


Immrama

by Dolorosa



Category: Pagan Chronicles - Catherine Jinks
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-07
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 02:40:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27937377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dolorosa/pseuds/Dolorosa
Summary: Five times Pagan Kidrouk had a life-changing revelation during a sea voyage, and one time he didn't.
Comments: 4
Kudos: 6
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Immrama

**Author's Note:**

  * For [laurel_crown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/laurel_crown/gifts).



Tripoli

'Do you know where we're supposed to be going, my lord?'

Roland's striding along ahead, moving so quickly that it's difficult to keep up with him. I have to raise my voice, to be heard over the din, and even then he doesn't turn around.

'My lord!' Pushing through a trio of irate-looking merchants, who are arguing loudly in Greek.

'Keep up, Pagan — we don't want to leave anyone behind.'

Easier said than done, in this crowd. It's all right for Roland — people see him approaching and move respectfully out of the way. When it comes to his scrawny squire, things are very different. I direct what I hope is my sternest glare at a pair of boys attempting to pick my pocket, and they scamper off, to re-emerge further ahead, their hands sneaking out hopefully in search of hidden valuables. I wonder why they bother. Everybody here has been picked clean long before they arrived in this thronging crowd.

Everywhere, as far as the eye can see, we're surrounded by the press of people. Our flock of refugees — the people we've been ferrying along with us since we left Jerusalem — has been swallowed up by the larger, seething mass of humanity. I can identify at least six languages being spoken, interspersed with the wails of babies, the bleating of a flock of goats being herded along by a wizened old man, and the incoherent yelling of what appears to be a fanatical street preacher, gesticulating in a frenzy on the periphery of my vision. It'll be just my luck if he decides to join our little band. 

This close to this many unwashed people, the stench is worse than the stalls in the Cattle Market at the end of a busy market day.

Roland gestures at a side street, then turns back to check that I've got the message. The docks must be in that direction, so I begin the near impossible task of trying to peel our clutch of Jerusalem refugees and stranded pilgrims away from the main throng. I have to count them several times to make sure no one's been missed, but finally, after a detour into a chapel with a leaking roof to retrieve the four Venetian nuns and a hair-raising moment when the shipwright from Marseille and his wife thought they'd misplaced one of their children, I manage to herd the lot of them to Roland, and we emerge from the tangle of little alleys into the waterfront, and the sparkling sea.

Our ship has the advantage of at least looking vaguely seaworthy, which is more than I can say for some of the other vessels in the port, some of which look like models rejected by Noah before he built the ark — and of a similar age. I redirect a straggling group of Jerusalem shopkeepers — at least one of whom recognises me from my garrison days and pretends not to — from where they'd stopped to goggle at a gang of fishermen unloading the day's catch, and join Roland, who is struggling to keep the disappointed outrage from his face.

The ship's captain, Marko, turns to me with an oily expression, spreading his hands in a gesture he clearly hopes appears apologetic and accommodating.

'The situation has changed since the agreement reached in Tyre,' he says, laying a placating hand on my arm. I resist the urge to shake him off. 'It's nearly winter, and the seas are much harder to sail — to say nothing of the pirates that have started plaguing these waters since all you Templars left.'

I suspect Marko is just making this up to wring even more payment out of us, but the problem is that he's our final option, and he knows it. It's getting harder and harder to get a ship out of here, especially when you're trailing what feels like half the population of Jerusalem in your wake. Roland gazes out to the ocean, his face expressionless. Clearly, it's up to me to deal with Marko and whatever he's trying to demand.

'You should have already received payment for all the refugees and pilgrims in our group. It was all arranged in Tyre — your agent agreed to it.'

'As I say,' says Marko, 'the situation has changed. I need to hire extra hands to guard against pirates, and we'll need to stop more frequently than originally agreed. And the original payment was only per person — nobody mentioned to me that your little band would still have any of their belongings. Storing and guarding people's possessions costs me money. The simplest way to do this, as I was explaining to Lord Roland here, is to levy a crossing tax on every passenger — barring the two of you, of course, as your costs were already agreed with the Order.'

This is what it's been like ever since we left Jerusalem: a levy here, a tithe there, a bribe for that guard set on watch duty to look the other way, and a tax for every corrupt official. And all done with a veneer of respect for Roland's knightly status and an implacable refusal to budge. They know we have no other choice.

I turn to look back at our sprawling flock. The nuns appear to have been taken in by an unconvincing beggar whose ferocious boils are actually constructed out of flour and water, and I'm exasperated to see at least one of the women beginning to reach for her purse. The children seem in danger of tumbling into the sea, while the shopkeepers have got into a debate with the wine-growing brothers from Jaffa about the relative merits of different types of olives. I certainly didn't volunteer to be responsible for this pack of absentminded, dispossessed people, whose ability to wander off rivals that of the most witless groups of pilgrims to the Jordan. And yet I find myself feeling worried about them in spite of myself, and caring about their safety. At every turn there's been some fresh indignity of exploitation — yet another opportunist seeking easy coin from the desperate. Defending the walls of Jerusalem from Saladin's army was an easier task than keeping this lot safe! Marko is just the latest in a long line of unscrupulous individuals taking advantage of the chaos, and Roland's authority as a knight of the Temple is meaningless in this situation. Our charges will have to pay Marko's 'tax,' or they'll be left stranded here in Tripoli, facing an uncertain future. There's little point in arguing further with Marko — he's not going to budge, and we need to get the refugees safely moving onto the boat, and across the ocean.

With a resigned sigh, I turn to round up our scattered flock, and break the bad news.

*

The open ocean, between Tripoli and Cyprus

At this time in the morning, the deck is deserted. The sun is scarcely visible on the edge of the horizon, the barest hints of light just beginning to warm things. I can hear the sailors calling out to each other, somewhere up above, but otherwise I'm the only one awake, driven from our berth belowdecks by the cacophony of snoring, sweating, grizzling Jerusalemites. I'm used to sleeping in close quarters to other people, but what I'm not used to is the _noise_.

The other thing that's caused me to leave the relative comfort of my bed below is Roland. It's taken me a long time — five months as his squire, watching his competence and moral clarity put the other, more inept and self-interested defenders of Jerusalem to shame, followed by the long weeks on the road and sea, shepherding those cast adrift by Saladin's armies to safety — but I've finally discovered Roland's sole weakness.

Lord Roland Roucy de Bram, that flower of chivalry, flawless as a stained glass window, whose bravery is such that it led him to lay down his own life if it would save the widows and orphans of the war from further terrors, a man I have witnessed with my own eyes ride uncomplainingly for hours under the burning sun, suffers terribly from _seasickness_.

It's almost comical. Roland has survived sieges and battles, he's endured Fulk's dreadful cooking and Patriarch Heraclitus's hypocrisy, and put up with nearly six months of me as his squire with little more than an occasionally raised eyebrow, and yet put him on a moving vessel on choppy water and he's rendered instantly bedridden, grey-skinned, and nauseous. He's been trying to soldier on through — not helped by the near constant stream of various refugees and pilgrims to his bedside, each suggesting their own dubious remedies for the sickness, most of which cannot be obtained on a ship, or even back in Jerusalem without copious amounts of money or the ability to withstand poison — but I can tell he's really suffering. Nothing less than genuine agony would confine Lord Roland to his bed.

And so I climb up the rickety ladder and onto the open deck, in the hope of asking any of the sailors about if they know of more reliable cures for poor Roland's terrible seasickness. I spot Marko in the prow, and steer clear — no doubt he'll have a whole apothecary shop's worth of remedies, each more expensive than the next. The two older sailors doing something complicated with long coils of rope underneath the tallest mast look more promising — anyone who's survived multiple crossings as a member of Marko's crew is sure to know a thing or two about seasickness treatments.

Roland will probably chide me for wasting time worrying about him when there are other passengers suffering worse torments, but someone's got to look out for him, if he won't do so himself.

*

The open ocean, somewhere between Crete and Sicily

The nuns are all praying. Their stamina is astonishing — I can still hear them above the cacophony of the storm. I guess it passes the time, although if I were them I'd address God with a bit more urgency and get us out of this terrifying situation.

The wind screams and howls, like a tumult of souls in torment, interspersed with the boom of thunder. Lightning splits the sky. It's so close I can see it every time it flashes through the entrance at the top of the ladder. The ship lurches and dives, throwing unsuspecting passengers back and forth. Most of the refugees are huddled in their beds, although some particularly foolish children seem to be making a game of it, shrieking with delight at each sickening pitch of the floor.

'My lord.' Sidling up to Roland, careful to keep my voice low.

'Shouldn't we be doing something?' Rounding everybody up into the lifeboats before we're thrown into the heaving ocean by a gust of wind would be a good start.

'Marko and his crew said that the safest place for all of us was down below,' Roland says. 'They've sailed this passage many times, and I'm sure they know how to manage navigating their ship through a storm.'

Have they? Have they really? Roland always takes things at face value, but I — I'm more suspicious. Some of Marko's men look more like beardless boys, far too young to be seasoned veterans of multiple sea crossings.

'Pagan,' says Roland, stepping carefully around an old man, who is crouched in a huddle, his face looking greyish. 'Sit down here on your bed, and drink this.' He presses a wineskin into my hands, and braces himself against the wall as the ship is shaken with a fresh batch of wind. I try to ignore the thought of all that water outside, hurling itself against the fragile vessel, flinging us up waves the size of fortification walls, and pushing us down the other side. The wineskin feels heavy in my hands, and the liquid sticks in my throat. I pass the skin back to Roland with a grimace.

'Maybe we should go up on deck.' Just to check what Marko and his crew are up to. If Roland were there, they'd listen to him.

'Pagan, do you know anything about seafaring or steering a ship?' Roland asks. He knows the answer before I even shake my head, and anticipates my next question before I can get the words out. 'And as for me, Pagan, this is only my second sea voyage, and I've never been on a ship during a storm before.'

There — I knew it! This terrifying storm is not normal. How can he be so calm? Over on the far side of the hold, one of the babies begins crying in screeching tones. It echoes my own panic.

'But if we went on deck —'

'What would you do up there, Pagan? Is there anything you feel you could do on deck that would calm the sea or silence the thunder?'

Of course not. But if I could see what the sailors were doing, at least I'd know what was going on, and I could console myself by imagining how Roland or I could do things better. It's the _waiting_ that's unbearable, trapped below in a hold that reeks of fear and vomit. Of course, there's no point in telling Roland any of this. He's as patient as a marble statue in a church.

'Sometimes, Pagan, you have to accept that other people are better equipped to handle a situation than you are. You have to trust that other people know how to do their tasks, and let them get on with things. I'm sure we will be carried safely through this storm, and emerge to quiet seas on the other side.'

He rests a hand on my shoulder, briefly, his expression serene, and then turns to stride over to an anxious knot of refugees who are hovering near the foot of the ladder. I push down a fresh wave of panic, twisting my waterlogged cloak between my hands.

Outside, the storm rages on, indifferent to the terrified insistence of my thoughts.

*

The open ocean, between Pisa and Genoa

'That is ridiculous!'

I can't believe what I'm hearing. Anselm — an ageing, grey-haired pilgrim from Normandy — has gathered a little group of people around him, all of whom are listening, awestruck and open-mouthed, to the complete nonsense he's spouting. I've encountered people like him before, using their tiny scrap of learning to lord it over others, assuming that everyone around them lacks the knowledge to recognise that what they're saying is absurd.

Anselm glances over at me with an irritated expression, struggling to hide his annoyance at being interrupted. He sits up a bit straighter, gesturing as if he's a learned teacher lecturing to a class of unruly students.

'Of course it's true. I read it — in a _book_ ,' he says, as if that settles it. Deferential looks from his crowd of admirers — anyone who has read a book is surely beyond question, in their opinion. Well, Anselm is not the only one here who can read.

'Have you actually seen any of the things you're describing?'

Anselm puffs up with wounded indignation.

'I don't need to have seen them to know they're real! The book describes more than twenty different islands — islands inhabited by terrifying, shape-changing beasts whose mournful cry can be heard across the water, an island filled with ants (the book says to avoid this place as the ants will devour an entire boat), an island with a single apple tree whose fruit can feed a crew of sailors for forty days. There are islands of lamentation, and islands where anyone who sets foot on their shores will instantly begin to laugh without cessation. There is an island inhabited only by great, white birds, and those birds sing psalms to soothe and uplift the souls of Christians travelling past them. And the book tells of an island over the rim of the horizon, a place of feasts and song, without sin, without sickness, and without death. It's all there in the book!'

'Those are _metaphors_!' It's exasperating arguing with someone who probably doesn't know what a metaphor is, so I try another approach. 'What is the name of the person who wrote this book? And did he actually say where all these islands are located? Did he travel there himself?'

'The islands are not in this part of the world. They're in the sea to the west of Ireland — the book was written by an Irish monk. And he was recording an account given to him by an old man in his monastery, who heard it from another old monk in his youth. And _that_ old monk said that he met the man who went on the voyage — he was a king's son who travelled into the ocean to avenge his father's death, pursuing the men who killed him, and remained there for over a hundred years, rowing around, without ageing. When he returned, everyone familiar to him had died, so he settled in the monastery, telling tales of his travels.'

'So, let me see if I've got this right. This is a third-hand account, written by a monk who never met the man who supposedly visited all these strange and fantastical islands. And that man somehow survived — without ageing a day — rowing around the open ocean for a hundred years. And all this seems a plausible enough explanation for the existence of these islands, which you yourself have never seen.'

Anselm goggles at me. 'It's all there in the book. It's written down.' That settles it, as far as he's concerned.

The refugees around him are clearly convinced by this argument, and clamour for more. Anselm settles back against his bedroll with a satisfied expression on his face, and carries on describing the nonsensical islands.

'Pagan.' Roland's like a cat, slipping in so quietly that his quiet voice startles me. A reproving look in my direction. We're not here to fight with our charges, in his opinion.

'Did you actually want me to sit here and let Anselm lie to all those other passengers? What he was saying was completely ridiculous!'

'We're all stuck here together for the whole journey, Pagan, and we need to keep the peace. Everyone is tired, frustrated, and fearful.' I take this to mean that challenging the authority of puffed up pseudo-scholars like Anselm is to be avoided.

'You must have heard what he was saying, my lord! Anyone with half a brain could have figured out that those islands aren't real — the author of the story made them up as a metaphor for the struggle of the soul journeying towards God!'

'Pagan, Pagan.' Roland's expression is placating. 'Not everyone has your nimble mind — or your learning, either. Does it harm any of the other refugees if they listen to Anselm and think he's describing real places?'

Not really. The veneer of learned authority Anselm's giving himself on the basis of his limited understanding of the story annoys me much more than the fact the other passengers are listening to him. No point in saying any of this to Roland, of course.

'No, my lord. I'll leave him to it.'

I have to admit, however, that arguing about books is almost fun. A good way to pass the time on this boring voyage — better than just watching the scenery, at any rate. It would be more satisfying if I were arguing with someone genuinely learned, though.

*

Marseille

So this is Marseille. It reminds me of the other port towns I've been to — crowded, dirty, and reeking of fish. After the relative silence of the sea, the noise is overwhelming.

This is the point at which the remaining refugees and pilgrims we've been minding will leave us. It's the final destination for some of them, while others will be collected by new boats, or guides to take them overland, and home. Two forts squat heavily at either side of the harbour, occupied by the Knights Hospitaller. Most of our charges will be heading in that direction, where they will become — at last — someone else's responsibility. The Hospitallers will be taking them from here, but that doesn't mean they can't get into all kinds of trouble in the short distance between the harbour and the forts. Roland's got his hands full, directing them through the throng, helping people locate missing pieces of luggage, lost children, and stray stores of coin. I'm supposed to be helping, but it's close to impossible. People keep wandering off. I've already had to retrieve one of the Jerusalem shopkeepers from the wrong ship. If I hadn't, he'd be halfway to Corsica by now!

I swerve out of the way to avoid a fisherman pouring his catch into a large basket, the fish gleaming silver in the sunlight. He yells at me to watch where I'm going. Expression of wounded innocence — I missed your precious fish, didn't I? At least I can understand the language being spoken around me. Some of the words are different, and the accent sounds strange to my ears, but I shouldn't have any trouble talking to anyone. That's one less thing to worry about.

The heat is baking, and my eyes hurt from the glow of the sun on the water. I thought it was meant to be cooler in this part of the world, but this is worse than the desert at midday. I must remember to ask Roland if this is a usual temperature for his homeland. Not that we've got to his homeland yet — we've got a lengthy journey to go, before we reach Montpellier, and from there the part of Languedoc where Bram is located. And if this heat is normal, our clothes from Jerusalem will be sufficient. Otherwise I'll need to see about buying some winter cloaks and warmer stockings. And fur-lined boots, maybe. New boots, at any rate. The ones I'm wearing look as if they personally repelled the assault of Saladin's forces on the walls of Jerusalem, including bombardment by a mangonel, and rivers of boiling oil. I try to avoid wondering about the origins of their various stains.

This line of thought worries me. I'm planning for winter as if we're going to be remaining here for a long time — long enough to make it worthwhile to get a whole new set of clothes. We're just here to drop off the pilgrims and refugees, and travel on to Roland's family home to gather reinforcements to help with the fight to retake the Holy Land. There are plenty of armies we could join up with. We'll be back home in a few months' time.

And what if we're not? This worrying thought rises unbidden, and I try to push it away. What if we're stuck here for much longer? What if we end up being required to spend more time resettling the refugees and directing the pilgrims home? What if we're stuck here for an entire season, or even for _years_? Maybe we'll miss our chance to return — we might linger here so long that all the armies leave without us! The thought makes me panic. It disturbs me how quickly I had begun to plan ahead, put down roots, forget that our stay here will be temporary.

I catch sight of Roland, far up ahead, at least a head taller than everyone around him. His armour reflects the sunlight, shining out among the sea of people. He's absorbed in his task of shepherding our charges to their new guides, but he must have noticed that I'm nowhere to be seen, and turns back, scanning the crowd. Waving back at him, catching his eye. Here I am, my lord. Just trying to sidestep thirty fish-sellers and a hopeful huddle of dogs. I twist out of reach of a pair of scrawny children trying to sell me a donkey, and an elderly, toothless woman brandishing what appears to be a tray of saints' relics, and keep my eyes on the path ahead.

And I run to meet up with Roland, fighting to reach him through the thronging crowd.

*

Montpellier

It is late in the day by the time the two of them reach Montpellier. They are tired, and hungry, and covered with the dust of the road. The city is quieter than usual, as if gathering a breath after the rush and bustle of the day. There are still people out on the streets, but most appear preoccupied, passing through on their way home. The sun hovers on the horizon, minutes from setting.

They're leading their horses through the cobbled streets, rather than riding, and the sound of the hooves is unnaturally loud, cutting jarringly through the quiet of the city at rest. Pagan glances about curiously, taking everything in, his eyes darting from shuttered shop windows to small boys herding pigs, from drinking fountain to lurking beggars, restlessly weaving himself into the fabric of this new place. If he has any observations about what he sees, he keeps them to himself. The city is a tangled maze of twisting streets, precariously overhanging buildings, and the clamouring cacophony of what appears to be hundreds of competing church bells. Pagan wonders if people in Montpellier navigate by the subtly different sounds of each set of bells, the way everyone did back home, in Jerusalem.

Roland is preoccupied, his thoughts clouded. He's trying to remember the location of the Templars' quarters, but retracing the steps he last took — in reverse — several years previously is proving difficult. He tries to think back to the that distant day, but all that is left is vague impressions: determination, and trust, and clarity of purpose. And hope. Above all things, hope. He hadn't thought that he would ever come back.

The two of them emerge from a street which slopes gently upwards, into a tiny square. A fountain splashes away in the far corner, the sound of the moving water soothing as it cuts through the silence. They pause, while Roland digs through the store of his distant memories, trying to remember whether they must turn left, or right. Pagan takes the opportunity to fill their waterskins at the fountain, the water a shock of cold against his fingers. Roland remains waiting, solid, silent, and still, his thoughts still turned to the conundrum of the correct route to choose. All at once he remembers, and they set out once more, leading their horses forward, their faces warmed by the last of the lingering light.

**Author's Note:**

> The 'Tripoli' mentioned here is in current-day northern Lebanon, rather than the Tripoli in current-day Libya. Pagan mentions it as his and Roland's destination in the final pages of _Pagan's Crusade_ , and so I have used it here as the starting point for their journey to Languedoc. In the 'Marseille' section, Pagan mentions two forts in the city. The current forts in Marseille were built in the 17th century, but on the site of earlier fortifications constructed by the Knights Hospitaller, and it is these to which Pagan is referring.
> 
>  _Immram_ , plural form _Immrama_ (literally 'rowing around,' but more commonly translated as 'voyage tales') is a genre of medieval Irish literature in which characters — normally people who are outsiders or dispossessed in some way — leave their homes and communities and sail between a series of semi-supernatural islands. These stories are not necessarily meant to be viewed literally: the physical journey through the ocean mirrors a spiritual or psychological inner journey, as Pagan observes in his argument with Anselm. And of course Pagan's journey in this fic is, itself, an _immram_. The fact that I have used the plural form of the word when titling this fic is entirely deliberate — there is more than one kind of journey going on here.


End file.
